


Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey

by lucky_spike



Category: Doctor Who, Homestuck
Genre: Crack, Crack Pairing, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Multi, Stabdads AU, destruction of canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucky_spike/pseuds/lucky_spike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Years from now certain members of the Midnight Crew think they're getting too old for this gig. Other members disagree. Bank robbery ensues, cheeseburgers are acquired, etc.</p><p>Later, Lord English and Spades Slick discuss the future for the Felt.</p><p>Everything is crackfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twilight Zone

**Author's Note:**

> It's only kind of stabdads. It's like . . . an AU of an AU.
> 
> AUNCEPTION.

The map of Midnight City on the wall was hole-pocked, oft-folded, stained and torn. It was riddled with pins, too, in its place of honor on the wall of the hideout.

The Crew regarded it solemnly, silently.

“What about Alternia United? Haven’t done a big heist in a while,” Boxcars said thoughtfully.

Droog was already shaking his head. “Five years is too soon for them.”

“Could always fuck up some green asshole’s day,” Slick said hopefully.

“You say that every time.”

Hearts frowned, truly unhappy. “Well what the hell we gonna do?”

“Paperwork for the casinos,” Droog said mildly.

“Fuck you, Droog.” Slick was tossing a knife idly, catching it by the tip every time, the metal of the blade tinging against his titanium fingers. “Fuck paperwork.”

“You’re caught up, Slick.”

“Really?” The knife thunked into the table. Spades leaned back in his chair, feet up on the table next to the knife. “Fuck yeah.”

“I’m itchin’ for a heist, boss.”

“Fuck off, Hearts, you think you’re the only one?” Slick rocked the knife back and forth, glaring at the map. The table was splintering, and Droog gave Spades a pointed look, to no avail. “It’s my fuckin’ table, Droog.”

Droog sighed and got up, stalking over to the map. Finally, he pointed to one of the push-pins. “First Prospitan on twelfth. It’s been long enough for them.”

“That the one with the fountain in the lobby?” Hearts smiled. “I like that place.”

“There’s more than one fucking bank with a fountain in the damn lobby, jackoff,” Slick said, absently.

“Fuck off, boss.”

Droog lit a cigarette and stared at the map for another minute before returning to his seat. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

Slick looked at him evenly. “You fucking serious?” Droog shrugged. “When was the last fucking time you remember us using a plan?”

“When was the last time a plan worked?” Hearts added.

Droog tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette. “Ten years ago and never, respectively.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“No you don’t.” He picked his deck of cards up off the table and shuffled through them. “Get Clubs, Hearts.”

“I’m right here.” They turned as one to look to the smaller man, standing framed by his doorway.

“Get your shit together, we’re robbing a bank,” Slick said, pulling a cigarette of his own out. “Fucking bored stiff.”

“I’m not going.” The other three froze and looked to Clubs with varying levels of disbelief. The little man straightened, pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sorry.”

“You sick or somethin’?” Hearts asked.

“No, I’m not.” Clubs took a shaky breath but went on, as firm as the rock of Gibraltar. “I am retiring.”

Slick actually started laughing. Even Droog cracked a smile. Hearts, on the other hand, looked devastated. “What?”

“I’m getting too old to do this!” Clubs said, over Slick’s increasingly-hysterical laughter. “And you can treat it like it’s some big joke, but I’m serious! No more robberies, no more heists, no more killing the Felt!”

“Sollux put you up to this, didn’t he?” Droog asked, that wry disbelieving smile still in place.

“He supported me,” Clubs muttered defensively. “But it’s my own business.”

Slick wiped a tear from his eye. “Alright Clubs, fuckin’ hilarious. Get your shit.”

“No.” Slick blinked. Droog did too. Hearts’ face crumpled even more, if that were possible. “I said I’m serious.”

“Seriously?” Slick leaned forward onto the table. “You don’t fuckin’ _retire_ from this game, Deuce.”

“No, you don’t. You die.” He struggled to draw himself up in the glares of Slick and Droog. “But I’m not going to yet. I’m retiring.”

“Clubs . . .” Hearts started, but Clubs backed into his hallway and, just for a minute, the façade crumbled and he looked deeply apologetic.

“I’m sorry. Have fun on your raid.”

The door shut. Droog and Slick looked to Hearts – he’d always been closer to the little guy than either of them – and then to each other.

“Can the little fucker do that? He can’t fucking do that.”

“Technically I think he can do whatever he wants,” Droog murmured. “Hearts did he say something to you about this?”

Hearts shook his head. “A while ago. I thought . . . I thought I talked ‘im outta it.”

Slick was on his feet, striding over to the door. He pounded his fist on it. “Fucking get out here, Clubs.”

“No! I’m retired now!”

“You don’t _retire_ from this you little shit!”

“Maybe I do! Maybe I don’t wanna get killed!”

Slick rolled his eye. “What the fuck’re you gonna do?”

“Make fireworks!”

“Make –” he turned to the other two and mouthed ‘Make fireworks?’ Droog shrugged. “That’s fucking stupid, Deuce!”

“I wanna do it so I’m gonna do it while I still can!”

Slick snarled. “Fine! You’re not gettin’ a fucking spondulick outta what we do today!”

“Okay!”

The boss glared at the door for a minute before snarling, frustrated, and whirling on the other two, his hands in his pockets. “Fine. Fuck him. Don’t need him for this piece of shit bank anyway.” He yelled at the closed door over his shoulder. “You wanna just sit on your ass and fuckin’ wait to die that’s your own goddamn business!”

Hearts stood up quickly and made for his door. “I’m . . . I ain’t goin’.”

“Oh _fuckitall_ , you retirin’ too?”

“No,” Hearts said quickly, brushing past Slick. “Just gotta think about some stuff.” The door slammed.

“Fuck him,” Slick snarled. He turned on Droog. The other man ground his cigarette out in the ashtray. “You fuckin’ out too?”

“No.”

“Well let’s fucking go, then.”

-()-

Slick drove, hunched over the steering wheel, seething and ranting, his grip on the wheel white-knuckled out of overpowering rage. “The fuck do they think they are? It’s like I’m fucking running a goddamn old folks’ home. They’re not even fucking old enough to retire!”

“The accepted age is fifty-eight.”

“Like I fucking said!”

“We’re all older than that,” Droog sighed. Slick frowned.

“I’m fifty-five, Droog.”

“You’ve been fifty-five for thirteen years, Slick.”

“Fuck you!” He glowered out the front of the car. “Seriously?”

Droog smirked. “Yeah.”

“Fuck me.” The car jerked to a stop in a fire lane, just outside the bank. “Let’s just rob this fuckin’ place.”

“I never argued.”

The worst part wasn’t how people just stepped aside when they walked into the bank – that was actually pretty fuckin’ awesome. The worst part was that the bank manager appeared behind the counter instantly, hands in the air, smiling. “Gentlemen! My, it has been some time, hasn’t it?” They stopped short of the counter, stymied. “Which vault will you be robbing today?”

Droog raised an eyebrow, glacially slow. “I’m sorry?”

Slick was less subtle. “The fuck is this shit?”

The manager went on. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’d assumed this was a robbery. Is it not?”

A knife appeared in Slick’s hand. “Of course it’s a fuckin’ robbery.” The assembled patrons sighed and sat down.

“Will this be long? I have to get back to work,” one woman complained.

“Fuck off,” Slick snarled. He looked to Droog. “This is some fucking Twilight Zone shit.”

“Well you never come in here unless you’re robbing us,” the manager explained, patiently. “And it has been quite a few years. We, ha, we remember though. I was a teller at the time, of course, and your friend Mr. Boxcars gave me quite a drubbing with that TV antenna! I still have scars.” He shifted a little under their incredulous stares. “Just thought I’d expedite the process today.”

“You were expecting us?” Droog asked, and Slick knew him well enough to pick up on the disbelief in his voice.

He shook his head. “Today? Not specifically. But you’ve been robbing the same banks for thirty-five years, gentlemen and it’s been long enough . . .” He shrugged. “We were due.”

“Could you three go out for drinks later or something? I have things to do,” the woman chimed in again. Slick snarled and stabbed her through the shoulder.

“Woah!” the manager laughed, nervous now. “No need to involve the customers.”

“Then tell ‘em to shut the fuck up.” He spun on the rest of the people in the bank, and smirked when they all flinched back. “Stay fuckin’ quiet.”

Droog pulled out his cue stick and approached the counter, almost casual. “I believe you keep the precious gems in vault three?”

The manager nodded. “Right away, sir, if you’d follow me . . .”

-()-

Seven minutes later they were slinging two bags into the back of Slick’s car before collapsing into the front seat. “Fuck that lady,” Slick said.

Droog lit a cigarette and stared out the front for a little, while Slick pulled away. The cops weren’t even there yet. “That was completely unsatisfying.”

Slick exhaled through his nose, face twisted into a sour expression. “Yeah it was.” He looked to Droog. “Wanna hit somewhere new?”

“Absolutely.”

They ended up driving around the city for a full hour before deciding that there was nowhere within the city limits that they hadn’t robbed before. So Slick floored it onto the highway, out into the suburbs and the desert.

The bank they ended up at was about forty minutes outside the city. Slick pulled up into one of the handicapped spaces and killed the engine. His seat squeaked as he flopped back into it. “Fuck this bank. Karkat could have robbed this shit when he was _eight_. Alone.”

“It’s pretty damn small,” Droog agreed. He pulled his deck out of his jacket pocket and riffled through the cards. “No one inside, either.” He jerked his head toward the glass doors. “Couple clerks and an old lady.”

They exchanged a look, Droog shuffling his cards, Slick’s arms crossed. He was scowling fiercely, and it turned into a snarl before he finally lunged forward and twisted the key in the ignition. “Fuck this, let’s get a cheeseburger.”

-()-

They stole the food and robbed the McDonald’s, as if that were any consolation. Then they drove to some abandoned hill outside the city, overlooking the Strip. _Casino_ – the jewel of Midnight City’s crown – sparkled even in the late afternoon sunlight, before the neon could truly blind passerby. “Fuck getting old,” Slick complained around a mouthful of burger, cross-legged on the hood of his car. He glowered at the Strip.

Droog nodded, leaned back against the passenger door, poker-faced and watching the city. “Agreed.”

“We should get the mayor to make some new fuckin’ law that makes the city like . . . better for banks or some shit. Get new banks.”

“I don’t think it would help, Slick.” He scrutinized a french fry. “Our reputation precedes us.”

“Huh?”

“We’re as much apart of the city as town hall, at this point. Which we built, so it is a logical next step.”

“Fuck town hall. I ain’t old enough for this shit.”

“You’re older than town hall, Slick.”

Slick looked to Droog, eyes narrowed. “Stop fucking pointing shit like that out.”

“Your granddaughter is in kindergarten.”

“ _Droog_.” He sniffed. “Karkat was too young anyway.”

“Slick, he was –”

“ _I know how fucking old he was_!” Droog snorted. They ate in silence for a while, Slick glaring at the city all the while. “Maybe we should move.”

Droog shrugged. “Knock yourself out. I hear Florida’s nice.” A knife whizzed by his ear and snatched the carton of fries out of his hand, tumbling off down the hill. He sighed.

Slick balled the paper wrapper up and threw it after the knife before he laid back on the hood, hand over his eye. “The fuck am I supposed to do for the rest of my goddamn life?”

“Government service.”

“Asshole.” He smiled dreamily. “I should blow up Felt mansion.”

Droog snickered around his cigarette. “Or you could become suicidal.”

“Doesn’t matter, right? You die sooner, you die later, fuck it all at least I’d go out in a blaze of fucking glory.”

“Except they’d all be alive again by the end of the week, which would make your death completely purposeless.”

“Death is always fucking purposeless. I should kill the fucking ice bitch.” He gestured grandly to the city, the suburbs, the desert. “Take the whole goddamn universe out with her.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Well, _Droog_ , what the fuck else do you suggest I fucking occupy my goddamn time with? Distract myself from the slow, inevitable crawl to the fucking grave.”

“Slick you own two casinos and five nightclubs. I am absolutely certain you could find _something_ to occupy your time with.”

He made a derisive noise, snarling. “Fucking paperwork and bureaucracy!”

“I forgot you don’t do well with office jobs,” Droog said, his tone indicating precisely the opposite. “You could mentor your son.”

“I ain’t a fucking doctor; I don’t know shit about medicine.”

“You know what I meant.”

Slick frowned. “The little shit and Deuce’s kid have a good thing goin’ on the side. Cyber-hacking or whatever the fuck they call it.” He looked to Droog. “Assholes spent three hours on some fucking website and made 1.2 million.” He stared up at the sky, the blue-black tentacles of night creeping in at the edges. “I don’t remember if we ever made 1.2 million.”

“’Course we did.”

“Not in three fucking hours.”

“Well, no.”

Slick went on, not really listening to Droog anymore. “Shit, all you need is a fucking computer and a logo – a stick figure with a goofy mustace and a goddamn monocle – and the world bank is yours for the fucking taking! And no one even shoots at you! Fuck, half the internet thinks you’re some kind of fucking hero!” He propped himself up on his elbows, yelling into the desert. “They’re stealing _the public’s_ fucking money and the goddamn sheep just ignore it or fucking laugh it off! They _like_ the little bastards!”

“Dreadful.”

He was on a roll now, snarling and yelling. “When _we_ were their fucking age we were . . . well we were wandering through a fucking desert but it wasn’t that fucking long after that we actually had to fucking work for this shit! Hours of planning, fucking getting shot or fucking . . . dismembered or _whatever the fuck_ and now that shit’s just a colossal waste of everybody’s fucking time! You press two goddamn keys and it does the same fucking thing in the end! There isn’t any fucking art to it, there’s no . . . no _creativity_ or fucking imagination or sense of goddamn accomplishment! It’s not fucking _robbery_ , it’s entitlement!”

Droog was chuckling. Slick pulled up, thought back over what he’d just said, mentally highlighted the parts that were depressing, and slouched back onto the car. “Fucking young people,” he concluded, but there wasn’t any conviction to it.

Droog went around to the back of the car, popped the trunk. Slick heard him brushing guns and weapons aside and then there was the optimistic clink of glass. When he came back into Slick’s line of sight he had two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “Move over.”

Slick waited for him to fill the glasses before he slouched back against the windshield. “Maybe we are stuck in a rut,” Droog acknowledged. “No point in going after the Felt, I don’t remember the last time we slaughtered another gang, bank robberies are going stale.” He took a sip. “I think I’ll run for office.”

“Droog your fucking criminal record is as long as my arm.”

“But I’m tall, I have my birth certificate, and I look great in a suit.” He smirked. “The voting public don’t seem to look for much more. At least, not until you’re elected.”

“We’ve never rented property,” Slick mused.

“Mobster Kingpin did. To an incompetent bunch of losers.”

Slick cocked his glass toward the other man. “Fair point.”

“You know what we _haven’t_ done,” Droog said suddenly, as if it had just occurred to him.

“What?”

“You own any stocks, Slick?”

Slick thought about it, took a sip of whiskey, and then smiled broadly. For once, the tall, severe man matched him, fanged grin to shark smile. “You know, Droog, I don’t believe I do.”


	2. Deal with a Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shalala (http://wachtelspinat.tumblr.com/) is totally at fault for getting me started on this, because she wanted to see Slick's grandkid.
> 
> Everything else that happens is on me, though. Sorry.

The phone rang at three in the morning. Slick, sprawled out asleep on his office couch, scrambled up, grabbed the receiver, and snarled into the phone. Karkat sighed on the other end of the line.

“It’s wriggling day, Dad,” he said, impatient. “We need you to watch Meg while we go get the new kid.”

“Get the ice bitch to do it.” He slid back onto the couch with a wince. Fucking arthritis or whatever the fuck it was. Piece of shit.

“Dad.”

“Fuck you.”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes. You just have to put her back to bed, she’ll sleep until ten.”

Slick hung up and glared at the phone for a while. “Think I’m a fuckin’ babysitter,” he grumbled. “Where the fuck are my pants.”

-()-

Karkat would often lament to Terezi that their daughter had got so attached to Slick. _He’s the worst fucking influence you can have on a kid_.

 _I don’t know, you only turned out to be a part-time hideous criminal. He can’t have been that bad._

The little girl latched on to her grandfather immediately after arrival, so he bundled her into a blanket and set her up on the couch in the office. Sure enough, despite her insistence that she wasn’t tired, she was asleep in fifteen minutes, curled up against his side. He followed suit shortly, since he and Droog had been out until two and one hour of sleep hardly even counts as a decent nap.

He woke up later to sun streaming in the window behind him, a stiff neck, and a pointy finger prodding him in the ribs. “I’m awake now,” Meg announced.

He glared at her but she just beamed back at him. She’d never been properly intimidated by him, which had thrown him for a long time in the beginning. He wasn’t used to people thinking he was _funny_.

She really did take after her mother too much. And, vicariously, the ice bitch. Main difference being, Slick could tolerate Terezi for short periods of time, and actually liked Meg. Because she was just enough like her Dad to make her tolerable.

“I’m also hungry.” She crossed her arms, sat back on the couch, cross-legged. “And I don’t want macaroni.”

“Did your dad tell you to say that or do you really not want macaroni?”

She jumped up, disentangled herself from the blanket, and seized her bright pink backpack from the floor. “Let’s rob 7-Eleven today.”

Yeah, he liked her.

-()-

“Don’t get junk this time,” he told her. “Try to get something decent.”

“I’ll get what I want,” she told him severely, flipping her hair and hopping out of the car. Slick shook his head and followed her. They probably were quite the pair, the black-suited old gangster and the six year old with the blindingly hideous dragon-print dress and bright red leggings. And denim jacket. With sequins.

Slick still smiled when he thought about the woman who’d once asked the little girl whether she dressed herself or her mother was just blind. “Both, fuckass,” Meg had replied, flashing all her fangs. The woman had fled.

Once inside the store, Meg trotted off into the shelves. Slick scooped up a newspaper and leaned against the counter. She retuned later, and laid a Drumstick on the counter with great ceremony. The clerk was distracted by his phone call – fighting with his girlfriend, by the sound of it – but he peered over the counter when the small hand set the ice cream up there.

“Gotta go,” he snapped into the phone before slamming it down. “Sorry, kid. Fifty cents.”

 She pushed the change onto the counter and took the Drumstick back. “Sounds like girl problems,” Meg said, her nose crinkling as she smiled. The clerk leaned on the counter, bemused.

“Ha, yeah, you could say that.”

The little girl buffed her nails on the front of her dress and ceremoniously unwrapped the ice cream. “I feel bad for you." She took a bite, and got a great deal of the ice cream on her nose. "Me, I got ninety-nine problems but a bitch ain’t one.” She looked over, alarmed, when Slick apparently suffered a violent and sudden coughing fit that sounded suspisciously like stifled laughter, his expression hidden by the paper. “You okay?”

“Never better,” he managed with a straight face. He folded the paper up, tucked it into a pocket, and put his hand on her head. “C’mon, kid.”

“Have a nice day?” the clerk hazarded, when the door shut behind them.

Meg waited until they were pulling out of the parking lot to display the spoils of her raid. “You have four damn bags of Red Vines,” Slick pointed out.

“I like Red Vines.”

“You’re not gonna eat four bags of ‘em.”

“ _Some_ are for the new wriggler, _duh_.” She tore into one of the bags and chomped on a licorice strand. “I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl. Do you think it’ll have a lusus? Dad said he’ll shoot himself if there’s gonna be another lusus. I dunno why, mine’s not bad.”

“It’s an eel.”

“Yeah. So?” She clenched the end of a Vine in her teeth and stretched it as far as it would go before it snapped. “Humans just don’t understand. Lususes are awesome.”

“It’s an _eel_.”

“Mom says she likes the aquarium in the back yard.” Slick shook his head. “Want some Doritos? No? More for me.” She chomped on a chip, orange cheese dust sprinkling all over the black leather interior. “So what’re we doing today?”

“What do I look like to you, a goddamn daycare employee?”

“You look like it’s your job to entertain me today.” She pulled a soda from the backpack. “I wanna go to the Strip.”

“We’re not going anywhere.”

“But it’s hot! I wanna go on the waterslides. _Please_.”

“No.”

“Can we see Uncle Droog?”

“No.”

She crossed her arms, inadvertently smearing cheese dust across her dress. “You’re boring today.”

 He shrugged. “Not my problem. I got shit to do.” _And I’m tired and my fucking shoulder is killing me and oh fucking dear God I’m fucking old_.

“ _Boss_ ,” she whined.

The car bumped up over the sidewalk and came to rest in the burnt-out patch of grass that had once been a front yard. He killed the engine and sat back, watching her levelly. She stuck her nose up. “Fine. Take your shit inside, we’ll go to the Strip.”

Meg beamed and flew inside. Slick sat back and pulled his hat down over his eyes. At least at _Casino_ he’d be able to leave her with Prospitan Bursar for a few hours while he either slept in his office or met up with Droog. Whatever. Not like he had anything else to do today.

-()-

In the end he got to do both; Droog showed up after he’d crashed out in the office for a couple hours. They’d shot some pool, smoked (Droog less than normal, which was odd, but Slick pretended not to notice), ranted (Droog didn’t participate at all in that particular activity), drank and purely by coincidence got some paperwork done. Eventually, PB returned with Meg. Both were soaked to the skin, but Meg was exhausted and content, so Slick was willing to overlook the trail of water from the elevator to the office.

Besides, Droog looked like he was about to have a stroke when she threw her arms around his legs, and that was almost worth more than anything else.

Slick took her home after that, and a couple hours later, as darkness settled over the city, they were both on the couch, flipping through channels, Meg tearing into a giant bowl of macaroni and cheese. “You think Mom and Dad will pick me up tonight?”

“Probably not.”

“Can I stay here?”

“Nope.” She glared. “Tossing you out into the damn desert.”

“No you’re not.”

“See if I don’t.”

She set the macaroni on the arm of the couch and slumped into him, looking up at him. “I have a question.”

He sighed. “Big surprise.”

“How come Snowman doesn’t get older and you do?”

He bared his teeth, reflexively. “’Cause she’s –”

“A huge bitch, I know. That’s not why.” She was frowning a little. “It’s weird.”

“’Cause ­ _she_ –” he managed to grit out, with some effort “– works for the universe’s biggest fuck-up and he can do all this timey wimey shit.”

“So she doesn’t get older?”

“Nope.”

She patted him on the stomach. “That must be very hard for you. What’s the universe’s biggest fuck-up named?”

Slick looked down at her, more than a little incredulous that no one had bothered to tell her before now. Or maybe she’d asked everyone else and not got a straight answer. Well, what the hell else were horrible grandparents for. “It’s Lor –” he stopped, because the papers on the desk suddenly blew off, across the room.

“Boss? What is that?” Meg asked, as a tremendous wheezing sound filled the room. Slick pushed her back, into the corner of the couch, half-shielding her. Something was flickering in the corner, by the piano. Something loud, and turbulent and boxy and . . . blue.

Very, very blue.

Slick flicked his switchblade out of his sleeve and the blade whipped out in the blink of an eye. The box – that’s what it was, just a big blue box – was getting more solid by the minute, the little yellow light on top throbbing on, off, wheezing and screaming and groaning into existence.

Meg grabbed his jacket. “Boss?”

“Fucked if I know,” he breathed. There was a hollow _thud_ and the box solidified, stopped phasing in and out.

Slick didn’t wait when the doors flew open. Attack first, ask questions later had been his life philosophy and considering how fucking stupidly long he’d managed to live it clearly had something going for it.

Never before, though, had the victim managed to grab his actual wrist and point some fucking stupid blue whirring thing at his right arm, utterly deactivating it. “Spades Slick, we meet at last!” someone said.

Someone, Slick realized, as the red haze of inexpressible rage faded away, that was very tall and wearing a long green coat and a green suit. The coat glittered. “Oh, fuck.”

“Hello!” said the other man, standing slightly behind Lord English’s skinny figure. He was likewise very thin with a stupid mop of black hair and . . . a bow tie. _A fucking bow tie_? The fuck did English have for douches with bow ties?

Slick looked up, not blinking. English was smiling ridiculously huge, his blunt white teeth managing to gleam in the flickering light of the TV and the damned coat. He was young – _really young_ – with crazy, flyaway blonde hair and piercing green eyes to match his suit. One spidery pale hand plucked the switchblade from Slick’s and flipped the blade back down. He tossed it over his shoulder, into the box.

Slick watched his knife go, and then jerked back. Because it didn’t hit the back of the stupid box which should have been four fucking feet away. It just kept . . . going, before it clattered to the metal walkway ten feet behind English. “Easy there!” he said, though he let go of Slick. He winked to Meg, who was just staring, wide-eyed. “It’s bigger on the inside.”

She nodded, mute.

“Anyway, Spades Slick! Oh, the stories I’ve heard.” And suddenly he was shaking Slick’s hand and throwing his other arm around Slick’s shoulders like they were old friends. “Really remarkable, the things you’ve managed. What a city! Not to take away from your Crew, of course, but _really_ remarkable, considering you spearheaded the pack, eh?”

“English?” was all Slick could manage.

“Got it in one, mate!” He let the gangster go and shrugged his coat off, tossing it onto the couch next to Meg. “Watch that for me, will you, love?” Slick just looked from the coat, to the man, pocket watches strapped all over his violently green waistcoat, and finally to the blue box.

The horse hitcher appeared in his hands before he really knew what he was doing. English sighed as if much put-upon and waved a hand. The ace of spades drifted to the floor. “I know it might be asking a lot, but if you’d just _listen_ for a minute I think you’d very much appreciate what I have to say. Snowy did say you’d be like this, though; I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Slick floundered for a minute. “The _fuck_ are you doing in my house?” he managed, hardly intelligible for all the snarling.

“Well, you know, just checking up on things! We’re arch-rivals, after all. Supposed to be, anyway. Can’t say I’m much of one, though, eh? Never around! Ah well, you seem to manage well enough on your own.” He paused, glanced to the box, where the other man had retreated into. He’d strapped on welding goggles and was hanging upside down from the vaulted ceiling, about at the level where the ceiling _ought_ to be. “Oh, how rude of me, that’s my, er . . . _guide_ to the universe. The Doctor.”

“Guide to a whole lot more than the universe!” the Doctor yelled.

“Hardly bears talking about, dear!” He turned back to Slick, who’d shot straight through angry, past furious, in and out of livid, and had settled on bewildered and confused.

“He’s gonna help you destroy the universe?”

English looked shocked. “Goodness no! Not yet, at least. Is that what you’ve been thinking? I mean, I suppose, _yes_ I’ll have to end the universe someday, but no time soon, old chap! So much more to see! Right, darling?”

“I do wish you wouldn’t call me that!”

English rolled his eyes. “He prefers me to shut up and be in awe of how clever he is. Works well enough, really.” And then he clapped his hands, snapping back to the present. “Anyway, Spades Slick!” He grabbed the other man by the shoulders. “Spades Slick. It has been some time, hasn’t it?”

Slick started to say something and then stopped. “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” he concluded. “The hell are you doin’ here?”

From behind them, Meg spoke up, apparently recovered from the shock. Recovered enough, they saw, when they whirled on her, to drape herself in the coat. “You’re tall.”

“Take that off,” Slick snapped, just as English started laughed.

“You wear it well, young lady! She must be your daughter, no, wait, granddaughter, yes?” He nudged Slick. “Yes, I thought so! Hard to imagine I’ve been gone that long, really! But I’m getting distracted.” He spun on Spades and bent down, looking him in the eye, boyish grin still in place.

“You must be what, nearly seventy?” English whipped out a slim silver tube, and flipped it around in his hand. Then there was the blue light again, the whistling sound as he swept it up and down in front of his nemesis. “Liver failure’s not far off, arthritis, hm, yes.” He light blinked off and the tube was secreted away back inside the man’s vest. “Hm. Tragic.”

Slick glowered and shoved his left hand into his pocket, itching to grab another card but knowing that it would be just that: another card. “What’s it fucking matter to you? Nothing left to stand in the way of your green pack of jackoffs.”

“Oh, but it _does_ matter to me.” English sighed. “They’re so like children, you know – simple, linear, creative. But they require entertainment.” He strode across the room, gesturing wildly with his whole body, ducking and spinning and twisting. “And the _problem_ , Spades Slick, with a pack of green children is that they are very difficult to keep entertained while you’re away! None of the gangs in Midnight City will stand up to them – certainly not since they’re immortal – except for you and your Crew. They _like_ that. You can only rob so many banks or defraud so many people or burn so many buildings before things get stale.” He stopped moving and looked at Slick from across the room. “Isn’t that right?”

When English didn’t go on, Slick spat out his answer. “Guess so.”

“Oh, I don’t think you have to guess, Spades. I don’t think you’re guessing at all.” He watched Slick for a minute and then the smile and the extravagant movement was back in the blink of an eye. “I think you know exactly what I mean!

“So Snowy has very strict instructions to call me when things get too dull for the gang – you know how it is, I’m sure. I got her message just yesterday by your timeline, and I got here as quickly as I could to speak to my men. And Snowman.” He’d circled the desk by now, and the piano, and was moving back toward Slick. “I had a word with Crowbar and he confirmed Snowy’s message: my gang is bored, Spades.”

Slick sneered. “Not my fuckin’ problem, English. Take ‘em off in your . . . whatever this is.”

“Time and Relative Dimensions in Space!” the Doctor yelled from inside.

“Tardis,” English clarified. “And it’s not that simple – they’re quite time-consuming, yes? The Doctor and I would never have a moment to ourselves and as for visiting planets, well . . .” he shuddered. “We get into quiet enough trouble on our own. No need to complicate things.”

“You’re a shitty leader,” Slick snapped.

“Perhaps!” English shrugged, apparently unbothered by it. “I suppose I’m a bit selfish, yes. But Crowbar and Snowy do well enough without me, and I hardly have to come back at all when they’re keeping busy. Which brings me back to my original point, Spades, and that is, mainly: they’re _not_ keeping busy. So I asked Crowbar about it, and I asked, ‘well what about the Midnight Crew?’ And do you know what he told me?”

Slick stared at him with a certain degree of revulsion before he realized that here, again, an answer was expected. “Of fucking course I don’t know.”

“He said that the Midnight Crew hardly ever bothered with the Felt anymore! And I thought, well color me surprised, and I asked weren’t you all always fighting one another and then he told me that you had been but then the Midnight Crew got too old to bother with that anymore.” He grabbed Slick around the shoulders again and pulled him up against that fucking stupid green vest, his cheek pressed into the cold face of a pocket watch. Something in Slick’s back cracked. “I have to say, I was fairly incredulous but now . . . A terrible shame, really.”

“Fuck you, English,” Slick growled.

That stupid fucking laugh again. “Well not so much has changed, I’m glad to see.” He prodded Slick in the chest. “But you see, I’m still caught in the lurch as to what to do with my gang! Without you chaps around – and at the rate you’re going you’ll be dropping like flies in no time – they’ll have nothing to amuse themselves with.” He twirled off, leaving Slick to straighten back up with a grimace. “Boxcars has four, maybe five years, Clubs probably more and your friend Droog, well . . .” he smiled sadly. “I wouldn’t give him six months, not with those lungs.

“And sure –” he went on, as Slick’s blood went cold “– eventually some other gang would crop up and that would last maybe four or five years, but people have memories, Spades, and before long the Felt will run Midnight City and no one will dare challenge them. And then, oh and _then_ there’ll be trouble.”

Slick was watching him now, just watching, shoulders slumped, left arm supporting the deadweight of the right one. He’d run out of anything to say, or do. “What’s it matter to you?” he asked, and for once he let himself sound tired. “One planet, keeps the fuckers entertained. You still have the whole fucking universe.”

“ _If_ this planet contains them. Don’t forget, they have Die available to them. Before long they’ll be skipping off through the timelines and the whole space-time continuum will go even more wibbly-wobbly than it already is.” He lowered his voice and stepped back to Slick, just walking now, no more half-dancing. And as he drew even and bent to look Slick in the eye, he suddenly looked very old indeed. “I can’t have that, Spades. Not yet. Not while this universe is so young.”

“So kill ‘em,” Slick murmured, looking away. “You can bring ‘em back when you need ‘em.”

“No, I can’t. I kill them, they’re dead, and that’s it. No more Eggs, no more Biscuits, no more Cans or Quarters. No more Snowman.”

“Your gang sounds like a fuckin’ terrible breakfast buffet.”

English quirked a little lightning-quick smile at that and laid one spidery hand on Slick’s shoulder. “I can’t kill them, Slick, and I can’t entertain them all the time.” He shook Slick’s shoulder a little. “That’s where your Crew comes in.”

Slick met his eyes and sneered, but there wasn’t much fire to it. He was too busy thinking. “Do I look like a fuckin’ babysitter to you?”

“You’re not a babysitter.” He smiled again, drawn, tired, and squeezed Slick’s shoulder. “You, Droog, Deuce and Boxcars are, quite possibly, the four most important men to the survival of the universe.”

Slick blinked and then snorted, because there wasn’t much else he could think to do at this point. “Well fucking sucks for you that we all got one foot in the grave, don’t it?” _I wouldn't give him six months_ . . .

English sighed. “I suppose so.” He shook his head. “Perhaps with more time . . .”

“Can’t imagine you don’t have fucking plenty of that shit lying around.”

And then the Bringer of the End looked up sharply and those green eyes seemed like they bore straight into Slick’s brain. “Promise me something, Spades Slick. You make this promise to me and your reward – your Crew’s reward – will be beyond what you can possibly imagine.”

Slick eyed him, wary. “What promise?”

“Promise me that you and your Crew will keep my gang entertained until you die. Steal some time for me, Spades Slick. That’s all I ask.”

“The Midnight Crew don’t work for anybody else,” he said, because it was a knee-jerk response at this point in his life.

“Slick, I’m asking you to continue to hunt down and kill my pack of green fuckasses for the rest of your natural life. I don’t care how many times.”

Slick’s eyes narrowed. “What’s the fucking catch?”

“There isn’t a catch. Well, you still can’t kill Snowman. But besides that. No catch. I promise you that.”

“The rest of my natural life, huh?” He frowned. “I ain’t doing it without Droog.”

English sighed. “I thought you might say that. I . . . I think I could arrange something.” He extended his hand. “So what do you say, Spades Slick? Do we have a deal?”

“As many times as I want?”

“As many times as you want.”

Slick stared down at the man’s bony hand. He thought it over. And then he realized that he’d made it this far without thinking anywhere near that much. He grabbed English’s hand. “You got yourself a deal, English.”

English’s face nearly split in half he smiled so wide, and his grip on Slick’s hand went from merely firm to nearly bone-crushing. “ _Capital_.” The gold glow that started at his hand spread then, and before Slick could get anything out it felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. “Not to worry! Just a few minor . . . changes. Part of my own insurance policy. I don’t think you’ll mind.”

“The fuck did you do?” Slick gasped from his hands and knees. He didn’t remember falling. He looked up. “The _fuck_ did you _do_?”

English shrugged, and the boyish grin was gone, as was the tired old man. Now he smiled like a fox, cunning and sharp and so _very_ clever. “Fixed your arm. Among other things.” Slick tested the machinery, and sure enough it worked as though English had never done a thing to it. He got to his feet, gingerly, and then, surprisingly, realized he didn’t need to be slow or careful about it. “I’ll be seeing you around, Slick,” the tall man said, stepping into the box, Tardis, whatever.

“When I die?” Slick asked.

English looked affronted. “I do hope before then. It won’t be long.” And then the fox smile was back. “Only a few hundred years, give or take. Try not to have too much fun.” And the door shut behind him.

As Slick stood in his office, frozen and flying all at once, watching the Tardis wheeze out of visibility, the Crewmembers across the city could have sworn something was glowing gold, but would put it down to lack of sleep, or the sun, or the booze. But afterwards, Boxcars could have sworn he wasn’t as tired as he’d been, Clubs suddenly questioned why he’d retired from the Crew at all – he felt great, and quite bored, besides – and Droog took a drag off a cigarette and was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t immediately cough up blood.

They’d all put it down to the weather, until later that evening, when their phones would ring, and Slick would explain very slowly, half-awed and half-furious, what had happened.

Later still, Droog would shoot Slick through the chest, mostly out of anger but partially to see if their suspicions were confirmed.

And Slick would get up, and cuss him out, and they’d beat the shit out of each other just because they could.

-()-

“Happy endings for all, eh?” The Doctor landed lithely on his feet, metal grates clanking beneath his boots. “All for one and one for all?”

English slid around the back of him, hand trailing the ridge of the shorter man's hips, and kissed him on the neck. The Doctor twisted and caught English on the mouth, his tongue teasing apart the other’s lips. “Something like that,” English murmured, between kisses.

“Oh _I_ get it,” a small voice said suddenly, and the two men leapt apart like they’d been burned. From the floor, Lord English’s overcoat spoke to them. “You’re like Uncle Tavros and Uncle Gamzee. That makes sense.”

English stooped and whisked the overcoat off the girl. She grinned broadly up at them, twirling her skirt. “I like your spaceship.”

“Smart girl!” the Doctor crowed. “I like it too.” He squatted down in front of her, delighted. “Would you like to go for a ride in it?”

“Doctor are you sure . . .”

She nodded quickly and then gasped, glancing back over her shoulder. “Oh, but I can’t; the Boss’ll be worried.”

“Nonsense, we’ll spin off wherever you like and I’ll have you back before he notices you’re gone.”

English crossed his arms and leaned against the console. “Famous last words,” he mumbled, rolling his eyes.

The little girl watched the Doctor warily for just a second, and then nodded, giggled. He tweaked her nose. “Now let’s see . . . do you like dragons?”

Her eyes widened. “Can we see dragons?”

“Only if you’d like to.”

“Oh, I’d love to . . .” she trailed off and then her brow furrowed. “No. On second thought, Doctor, I would not love to see dragons.”

“No?” English quirked an eyebrow.

She straightened and snapped her heels together. “I want to see eels. And whales. I’d like to see the sea.”

“The sea!” The Doctor jumped up and spun around the console, shouting orders out to English and Meg. “Very popular with desert-dwellers, eh? And I think I know where we can find quite a brilliant sea. What’s your name, then?”

“I’m Meg.”

He skidded to a stop in front of Meg, who was giggling now, and leaned down to meet her eyes. “Well, Meg, let me ask you this – have you ever heard of Gliese?”

-()-

It was probably about five minutes after English left that the shock wore off and Slick jolted himself out of the dumb slouch he’d settled into, staring at the empty space in his office the Tardis had so recently occupied. “Fuckmook left his coat,” was the first thing he said, and he spun to the couch, where Meg and the coat had been.

It was empty.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he said, with feeling, before he bolted out of the office. “Sorry Karkat, I fucking let Lord English wander off with your fucking kid but good news: I’m possibly immortal! Fucking dumbass, goddamn this timey wimey shit straight to fucking hell . . .”

“Boss?” He was halfway up the stairs when the call came from the kitchen and he froze and spun.

“Meg?” He thundered down the stairs, taking them two at a time, before he rounded the corner into the kitchen. Meg was standing by the back door, calm, collected, and a little puzzled. He scooped her up in one movement and hugged her. “Don’t wander off when there are fucking world-ending demons in the house again,” he growled. Then, slowly, gradually, his eye opened and he held her at arm’s length. “Why are you wet?” She beamed at him and dripped all over the floor. Just on the edge of hearing, there may have been the geriatric wheeze of nine hundred year-old Gallifreyan technology. “And why do you smell like the ocean?”

“Me and the Do –” she caught herself, snapped her mouth shut, and then smiled sweetly. “I was playing in the sprinkler.”

He frowned at her for a second. “You little liar.”

“Yup.”

He sighed, wrapped his arm around her middle and tucked her under his arm, her arms and legs dangling as he toted her upstairs. “I don’t know when I fucking became everyone’s goddamn babysitter,” he griped.

 She smiled up at him and hugged him as best she could. “I dunno, Boss. But I don’t think anyone’s complaining.”

“I am.”

“You know what Mom says? She says you and Dad are just alike – the more you complain, the happier you are about something.”

“Your mom’s an idiot.”

Meg smiled in a way that suggested she’d heard that very thing many, many times before, and it meant she was right. “I love you, Boss.”

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “Whatever.” And Meg hugged him tighter, because she’d heard that a lot before too, and she knew that when you got down to it, in that context, ‘whatever’ meant ‘you too’.


End file.
